


Endymion and the Moon

by AuroraExecution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Classical References, Drinking, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, M/M, Metaphors, Occitan, Sleep, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraExecution/pseuds/AuroraExecution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire, four days after a fight with Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endymion and the Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sythar](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sythar).



> This was written in spring 2012 for my dear friend and Les Mis RP partner Bexie (aka Sythar) on her birthday. 
> 
> The basic premise is that Enjolras and Grantaire are in a somewhat volatile relationship, most likely before the events portrayed in Les Miserables.

Unsurprisingly, Grantaire was drunk.  It had been several days since so he was relatively _less_ drunk, but he was drunk nonetheless from habit, so as to avoid his many crowded and unpleasant thoughts.  After all, when one’s mind is sinking dreamily into a mélange of wine and absinthe, one cannot think clearly on anything else. 

There had been only one meeting since, at the Café Musain the afternoon following their disagreement, and Grantaire knew better than to go.  He would go to the next one, of course, because he never could stay long away from Les Amis in general and Enjolras specifically, but even Grantaire was not foolish enough to prod an angry lion twice in quick succession. 

Instead of attending the meeting, Grantaire instead spent the night drinking himself into oblivion at a nearby wineshop, the cloying sweetness of drink washing away his ability to remember any bitterness.  It was, he reflected, a bit like dampening the taste of medicine by adding the awful flavoured syrup that was starting to become popular.  There were moments he would almost rather have the medicine taste because the syrup was so invasive and sickly-sweet, but then he would taste the painful bitterness of the pure drug and remember why he grudgingly accepted the advent of syrup flavouring. 

The night after had been more of the same, but the third night he found he was able to leave his mental faculties intact for a while longer than before, and by the fourth night he was stable enough to drink only what would dull his senses and give him the inflated sense of elation, but not enough to truly disorient him.  In fact, he found himself stumbling home through the dark streets long before the hour when such establishments as his wineshop generally began ejecting patrons.  Grantaire was proud of himself—he could not help drinking himself into a mess when he knew Enjolras was unhappy with him, but he also knew he would always try to return and make amends, whatever the ultimate outcome, and to do so he would need to find as much stability as he possibly could.  That it only took four days this time to drop back down to slight drunkenness was a great accomplishment on his part, he thought, and this meant he would be ready sooner to seek out Enjolras. 

 The cold of the night air, and the length of time it took him to walk to his rooms—this was not the Café Musain, only two streets away—began to sober him further, bringing thoughts unbidden to the surface.  How _had_ the argument started, anyway?  It was not politics; it was never politics, as Enjolras knew Grantaire well enough to realize that particular argument would never go anywhere pleasant.  It took Grantaire a moment to remember, but then he recalled the disapproval. 

As always, it had begun with Enjolras’s remarks about Grantaire’s drinking.  That, in and of itself, was harmless—Enjolras understood it was a habit Grantaire was ill-equipped to break, and also knew ordering Grantaire to stop would be of little use.  The downward slide always started with Grantaire’s protestations in reply, because drinking was his eternal and trusted crutch, because he could not control his desire for it, because it soothed him.  Enjolras, four nights ago, had grown angry and responded: “It is times like this that I cannot believe you truly have the faith in me you proclaim.”  This time—this time, Enjolras had thrown back the one thing Grantaire had ever had to offer anyone, and in turn, Grantaire had stumbled out of Enjolras’s golden candlelit rooms without another word. 

Looking back, four empty days later, Grantaire recognized how unlike Enjolras it was to say such a thing, because faith and Enjolras were nearly one and the same.  Looking back, Grantaire knew the barb was simply a moment’s frustration, knew his own words had most likely stung Enjolras hard with the insinuation that he was insufficient for Grantaire’s happiness.  In a way it was true—Grantaire was still unhappy every moment away from Enjolras, but that was not anyone’s fault but Grantaire’s own.   Suddenly, Grantaire found himself very much wishing he could see Enjolras, to apologize, something, anything.  

At the door to his rooms, Grantaire paused.  Tomorrow, he resolved.  Tomorrow he would do something about this. 

There were no lights lit inside, but it was late enough that he did not care to attend to them and simply found his way by touch.  As he went to his bed, he found it already occupied by a human-sized form.  Grantaire was fairly certain of who it was, but stepped to the table and found some matches, with which he lit the nearest lamp. 

Sprawled with casual grace over the side of his bed, golden hair tumbling over his pale cheek, was Enjolras.  His fingers were ink-stained, and the familiarity of that tiny detail made something hard form in Grantaire’s throat.  Knowing Enjolras as Grantaire did, the godlet had most likely come to apologize, and waited so long he had fallen asleep—although Grantaire had left the wineshop earlier than usual, it was still quite late at night—but Grantaire no longer cared about such matters.  Apologies and explanations could wait for the morning.  That Enjolras had even come meant everything. 

As quietly as possible, Grantaire stripped out of his outer clothing, blew the lamp out again, and got into the far side of his bed.  Enjolras murmured incoherently for a moment, then shifted toward him. 

“T’aimi,” whispered Grantaire, smiling.  He drew an arm over the sleeping figure, as Enjolras nestled his head into Grantaire’s chest.  For some time, Grantaire watched contently, before he too was ensnared by Morpheus’s sweet grasp.  Silence reigned. 

For the moment, it was all the forgiveness that was needed. 

**Author's Note:**

> "T'aimi" is Occitan for "I love you".
> 
> As Hugo states that all of Les Amis were from the South except for Bossuet, Sythar and I used to RP them as having grown up speaking Occitan. I will admit I first encountered the idea reading Petra's "Dins Ton Pais Tornaras", which is still possibly my favorite E/R fic ever and can be found here: http://romantic.frenchboys.net/petra/lmtornaras.html.


End file.
